Better Exercise, Better Result

Actually, the title's deceptive. I think this exercise was kinda stupid, but I liked what I got out of it.

As I'm sure you've noticed, I take Creative Wrting at school. We just entered the poetry unit. Today we were given a poem, called "Once in the 40s." I type it up, just so you can compare with what followed.

We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but
brave--we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.

So we had to type this poem up, triple space it, print it, and then write new lines in between each line. Weird, huh? I can't say I really like the idea--I want my poetry to be my own. I get really hung up when people ask me to imitate other writers. How do you expect me to do that?? Style is something natural, it just FLOWS--and I don't want to pick that flow from the story. Style is part of the fabric; pulling it out unwinds the piece.

Still, it wasn't like she was telling us to imitate the writer. Just put our lines in between his. Still not something I'm a fan of.

Actually, it got me thinking of Simon and Garfunkel. You know "Scarborough Fair"? I love that song. I'd love to perform it a cappella in a choir someday, though I'm sure it would be tough. But done right, it would be gorgeous. Maybe I'll suggest it to Mrs. P., who leads both choirs in school (I'm in the Women's Choir). I doubt I'll get a chance to sing it since I graduate in January--more on that later--but maybe in the future they'll do it and it will sound so pretty.

But Scarborough Fair. You know how Simon wrote this complementary song to it, "Canticle"? You can hear it at the end of each line if you listen carefully. That was what I wanted to achieve. I didn't want to add to the story the poem told; I wanted a complement. Or something. So here's how it turned out:

We were alone one night on a long
(empty freezing and flat)
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
(eyes watching not saying a word)
my wife and I, and left our ride at
(abandoned at the center of the world)
a crossing to go on. tired and cold--but
(like gladiators, alone in arena)
brave--we trudged along. This, we said
(so isolated in the noise of the crowd)
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
(to play back regret, a dusty old tape)
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
(the fuel for a fire so needed fro warmth)
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.

So my words (in parenthesis) were supposed to complement it--not be a part of it. Do you get it? And then we were supposed to rework our lines into yet another poem:

(empty freezing and flat)
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
(eyes watching not saying a word)
(abandoned us at the center of the world)
(like gladiators alone in arena)
(so isolaed in the noise of the crowd)
(sword so bloody, surrounded by bodies)
(stories ended in a single thrust)
(a game, a sine, a dark melanoma)
(a blotch inerasable, marking the past)

(so play back regret, a dusty old tape)
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
(the fuel for a fire so needed for warmth)
(that gives off smoke--the wisps of ghosts)
(stand silent, accusing)
(in the dark of night.)

The second verse is better, I think. Could use some work, but hey, first draft. I kinda like it, what do you think?